


Dark Side

by fiverslicense



Category: Glee, The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Huntbastian, Hurt Sebastian Smythe, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, Protective Hunter Clarington, Sebastian Smythe Needs a Hug, Sebastian Smythe is Barry Allen | The Flash, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:08:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25740349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiverslicense/pseuds/fiverslicense
Summary: ❝𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜...𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝.❞Sebastian Smythe is coping fine. Traumatic childhood? What's new? Being bullied and ignored? Story of his life. Overwhelming guilt threatening to drown him like a tsunami? It's not like he hasn't done plenty of things to feel guilt about over the years, is it?Hunter Clarington arriving unexpectedly and actually taking the time and patience to tear down the walls Sebastian has built so intricately around himself? Okay, he might be just a little bit fucked.
Relationships: Barry Allen & Iris West & Joe West, Barry Allen/Hunter Clarington, Hunter Clarington & Sebastian Smythe, Hunter Clarington/Sebastian Smythe, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Nick Duval/Jeff Sterling, Sebastian Smythe & The Warblers
Comments: 16
Kudos: 100





	1. Smythe's Story

**Author's Note:**

> So I literally wrote this in a day and it's sort of terrible but I wanted to post something here, so enjoy I guess?

**SEBASTIAN SMYTHE IS SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD AND HE FUCKING HATES HIS LIFE.**

It wouldn't be unfounded to take one look at Sebastian Henry Smythe and assume that he has everything he could ever want because he does, in the conventional sense. There will never be a time in his life where Sebastian has to struggle for money, to have to skip a meal simply because he cannot afford it, and that is proven by the extortionate tuition fees covered when he transferred to the Dalton Academy in Westerville, Ohio for his final two years of high school. Before that he’d been studying abroad in Paris, finally caving after three months of incessant nagging, and it had been… Well, interesting would probably be the most appropriate word to describe the ordeal. 

In Paris he was free to be whoever he wanted, to reinvent himself into the great Sebastian Smythe he is today, but not without hard work and setbacks, of course. He’d gotten a fake ID from one of the seniors, becoming well acquainted with the wild lifestyle and being more surprised to awaken without a hangover. Sobriety had become a pipedream and innocence soon with it. He’d had sex for the first time on the backseat of some flashy car with a man twice his age, twice his height, and with half of Sebastian’s intelligence - not that he’d needed to be intelligent, just good with his hands and experienced enough that he would lead and Sebastian would follow, pretending like he is a twenty-two year old shipped over to study from Marseilles rather than a fourteen year old kid with more money than sense. It’s nothing special; Sebastian can look back now and safely say that the man hadn't been half as experienced as he’d claimed because it had hurt and the movements were sporadic, lacking the liquidity of ease and practice that he now knows well. 

But things happened, life moved on, and now Sebastian is in Ohio, mentally preparing himself for his second and final year at Dalton. He’s already vowed to himself, and to the administration at the school, that he will _“turn over a new leaf”_ this coming year and that there will be _“no more bullying, blackmail, or assault”_ which will certainly make for a tedious year, but he figures maybe the monotony is what he needs right now. The Warblers are still struggling to find a replacement for him last Sebastian had heard and it makes him feel somewhat guilty because they shouldn't be worrying about this for another year, he should be leading them to a triumphant Nationals victory in his senior year and finishing on a high, but instead he will no doubt spend the year swaying and humming in the background and being about as much use as Kurt Hummel in a sex shop. 

Fuck, he wishes he had never thrown that slushie. Well, he wishes it had hit the intended target because watching Hummel shriek so loudly that only dogs can hear him would have been amusing, flapping his arms wildly as he tries and fails to remove the sticky red liquid from whatever flamboyant outfit he would no doubt be sporting. Naturally, things hadn't gone to plan and Sebastian hates it because if there is one thing he loathes more than the stench of public schools, it is that familiar feeling of things being out of his control. 

That’s why he had made such a good leader, if he does say so himself. Sebastian is confident with the charms and talent to back up such arrogance, and he doesn't like to lose because _“losing is for losers”_ as he recalls his childhood friend, Iris, whining about after losing some sporting event or another. He hadn't really cared back then and he certainly doesn't now that he hasn't seen the girl in six years. Her point, however, had been perfectly valid. So Sebastian makes a pact with himself that he will do whatever it takes to win, be it extra rehearsals, splashing his own cash to hire some professional vocal coaches and choreographers to run through some ideas with him, or even resorting to underhanded tactics as and when they are necessary. 

Case in point, the Hudson blackmail images. With the benefit of hindsight and sobriety, Sebastian will admit that it hadn't been a particularly well thought out plan because he’d put too much faith in relationships (a mistake he knows he should never have made twice) and, while it had still effectively lowered the morale of the pathetic Nude Erections, it had also made Blaine despise him even more, made the Warblers begin to question how the ends could possibly justify the means in this scenario, and had left him alone and hurting when the cherry on the proverbial cake had appeared in the form of an offhanded text message from Trent Nixon to the Warblers group chat. 

**NIXON:** _did u hear abt karofsky??_

 **HARWOOD:** _Who…?_

 **JEFF:** _The one who bullied Kurt at WMHS, right?_

 **DUVAL:** _yup_

 **DUVAL:** _what happened?_

 **NIXON:** _he’s in the hospital. tried to commit suicide according to blaine :((_

And Sebastian’s heart may have stopped beating for a second but it soon makes up for it with the rapid succession of _thump, thump, thump_. He is sure that the other Warblers can hear it, could dance to the heavy beat even from their respective dormitories, and he hates himself for even allowing any emotions besides guilt to settle in the pit of his stomach because now isn't the time to think of the past, of everything that had happened, only the fact that he had said all of those nasty things to Karofsky and now he might die and it’ll be all Sebastian’s fault… 

_Thump, thump, thump._

_Guilty, guilty, guilty._

There is nobody he can turn to, no shoulders to cry on nor friendly ears to listen. He alienated everyone around him, built a fortress of solitude around his heart that nobody would dare try to knock down simply because it isn't worth the trouble. Sebastian isn't worth the trouble. And it shouldn't be as upsetting as it is because fucking hell, he deserves this - karma has swung around and jolted him straight back into reality, hasn't it? He’s been running around Ohio terrorising people to make himself feel better, causing mischief for his own amusement, and for what? This isn't Paris, the stakes are not the same anymore. Here he has a home, if he wants it. No questions asked, no take backs, just an honest life building bridges, forging friendships, pretermitting past traumas. 

He has to take it, hopes Karofsky manages to do the same because sure, the other boy had been a bully in the past too, but he’d changed, evolved, and it’s obvious how many people care for him. Even Hummel is concerned about his well-being according to Nixon. Maybe fresh starts are exactly what they need. 

Apparently, Sebastian is not the only one planning to start anew because they meet the new Warblers captain on October first and he is exactly that: new. A transfer student from a military academy in Colorado Springs and Sebastian can scarcely believe that the administration is willing to make the same mistakes over and over again by bringing in new students to lead the most prestigious group in the school and expecting them not to crack under the pressure. There is nobody more resilient, determined, resourceful than Sebastian Smythe is and he had still shattered like some hollow vase with the mounting expectations, so he doubts this inexperienced military brat will last the week. 

Unfortunately, he’s wrong. Hunter Clarington is as good a leader as he would be a model, challenging them sometimes but knowing when to reign it in and allow them intermissions and amusing little trials just to loosen them up a little and bring them together as a team. That had been Sebastian’s shortcoming, he knows, because he had been remarkably self-centred, believing the others to be his minions rather than his charges and had treated them as such. No wonder most of them still refuse to make eye contact with him, much less strike up a conversation. 

Fuck them. Jeff Sterling still speaks to him, the naïve bastard, and that’s enough for Sebastian. They aren't hold-hands-crossing-the-street, cry-on-my-shoulder, movie-marathons sort of friends, but they converse about lacrosse tactics as co-captains and keep relatively up to date on one another’s lives. Sebastian knows far too much about the blonde’s relationship with Duval and all of their bland, monogamous sex, and Jeff is the only one who knows that Sebastian is adopted, though that had been blurted out entirely by accident and he had threatened Jeff vigorously and violently about all of the ways he would make him suffer should he tell anybody about that, even his overly possessive boyfriend. 

Be it through genuine friendship or for fear of having his genitals removed with a hacksaw, Jeff agrees to keep schtum on the matter. Whatever the reasoning, Sebastian is grateful. 

It isn't like his adoption is embarrassing or something to be ashamed of because it isn't. It’s just not anybody else’s business whether or not his parents are really his parents, that’s all. His adoptive father is actually his maternal uncle, Marcus Smythe, and his now ex-wife, Isabelle Cartier, still had joint custody of Sebastian until his abrupt departure to Westerville. 

The identity of his biological parents is what Sebastian doesn't want other people to be made aware of. It doesn't exactly look good that his father is serving a life sentence in a prison in Central City for murdering his mother, does it? The bullies at his old school had certainly had similar sentiments because they had revelled in the joy of beating him senseless day after day just because he’d been different to them. His intelligence, his sexuality, his parents, they had used any and every excuse in the book to justify their savage cruelty and Sebastian had taken it without complaint because he’d probably done something to deserve it anyway. Of course, he hadn't been Sebastian back then, he’d been shy, nerdy Barry Allen who hid behind thick-rimmed glasses and chemistry textbooks rather than socialised and formed meaningful bonds with other people.

Except Iris. She’d been his best friend all his life, still is even after all of this time, and there is not a day goes by that he doesn't want to just pick up the phone and call her. He wonders if she has a new boyfriend - back when they were eleven she had been dating Dylan but Sebastian had always maintained that his gaydar beeped incessantly around the boy, so it would be intriguing to discover if he was right - or whether she still attends more clubs than any one person should be able to. Gymnastics, horse-riding, soccer, cheerleading: there is nothing Iris West cannot do once she sets her mind to it, of that he is sure. 

He doesn't pick up the phone to call her. Iris will be beyond pissed at their lack of contact, is almost definitely ignoring him, and would no doubt be able to hurt him twice as much as the likes of Tony Fucking Woodward and his pathetic posse. Karate had been her favourite club for a reason. Instead he takes Jeff out for extortionately priced coffees at The Lima Bean, buries himself in stacks upon stacks of extra credit work (of which he definitely needs now that there is yet another blemish on his permanent record in the form of an essay about how _“Sebastian Smythe excels academically and is a natural-born leader, but his competitive nature often results in disastrous events which are only made worse by his neurotic personality”_ or words to that effect) and throws himself at any living, breathing man who looks his way at Scandals. 

And his new favourite hobby, of course: irritating Hunter Clarington. 

It doesn't earn him any favours in terms of popularity since everybody seems to be infatuated with their newest member but Sebastian finds it entertaining and he knows that Jeff and Duval do too because they giggle constantly in the corner, when they aren't trying to swallow each other’s faces, that is, and a few of the younger Warblers who still idolise Sebastian as though he is a God seem to derive some pleasure from watching Hunter’s eye twitch and his fists clench as he tries his hardest not to lose his temper and deck Sebastian even though he absolutely deserves it. 

Sharing a room certainly doesn't help. If Sebastian is annoying in the choir room and the lunch hall and the library - okay, so he is annoying in every room that Hunter happens to be in - then Hunter is downright pestiferous in their dormitory. Sebastian may never have bunked with anybody else before, but he is fairly certain that his new roommate is not a conventional one. 

Firstly, Hunter likes to walk around shirtless which would be a fucking score for Sebastian if not for the fact that Hunter had introduced himself on day one as _“not even remotely bicurious”_ and he seems adamant to stick to the label even if Sebastian sees him checking out the more attractive Warblers rather a lot, himself included for obvious reasons. He likes to tease Sebastian a lot, smirks when he emerges from the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist and rivulets of water still clinging to his Adonis-esque muscles like nobody’s business, swaying his hips and throwing a few barbed comments around like Sebastian could ever be focusing on Hunter’s grating voice when he is transfixed by his beautiful body. 

That’s another thing about Hunter that is utterly insufferable. He has Sebastian inwardly using such words as ‘beautiful’ and ‘ethereal’ rather than the more lewd terms he has become accustomed to, not that Hunter isn't all of those words and more because he really fucking is. And God does Sebastian hate him for it… 

Sectionals are fast approaching and Sebastian lets his new hobby fall onto the backburner just long enough to allow Hunter to whip them into shape. Except - well, except Hunter doesn't seem to have a flock of fanboys anymore and the Warblers stop listening to him so much. They still do as he commands but Sebastian can see the shift from admiration to fear, has been in Hunter’s exact position himself, yet still cannot comprehend when the tides had turned so abruptly and for what reason. Not only that, but with Hunter’s growing unpopularity comes questioning glances Sebastian’s way. Some of the Warblers are unnecessarily harsh toward him, others ambush him when he’s alone and plead with him to form some sort of rebel alliance to captain them in secret without Hunter’s knowledge. Which is strange but sort of flattering, he supposes. 

Whenever he asks, Hunter grunts and offers him noncommittal responses. Nobody else mentions it either and Sebastian is starting to feel incredibly out of the loop which isn't good for his quote “ _toxic obsession with being in control at all times”_ unquote. His first psychologist really had been a bitch, especially considering he had been your average five year old at the time (provided that ‘your average five year old’ thrives in situations where his peers are crying, trembling at his mercy, and utterly despise him yet are too afraid to go against his reign of tyranny. There may be a pattern emerging…). Even Jeff deftly changes the subject whenever Sebastian tries to broach it and it puts a serious strain on their already tentative friendship. 

Fresh out of options, Sebastian calls the one person he knows he can rely on. 

“Bear?”

That nickname, that voice, that whole other life shatters his resolve. He chokes on a sob, pulling his duvet over his head and praying that today will not be the day that his roommate breaks his strict routine. It’s an hour or so before dinner and Hunter always uses this time to work out in the gym, coming back to the room for a brisk shower just before six when they head down to the lunch hall together simply for convenience and not because Sebastian is beginning to enjoy Hunter’s company because he isn't. At all. 

“Joe,” he whispers breathlessly. 

“Are you okay, son?” comes the alarmed response. 

Sebastian sniffles pitifully. “Joe,” he repeats because coherency seems to be failing him now and he still cannot believe that Joe had even picked up the phone to the ungrateful kid who hasn't contacted him in literal years. He doesn't deserve him. Or anyone. 

“What’s wrong, Barry?” the man questions. “You’re scaring me here.”

“Everything is wrong,” he reveals ominously, not caring that he is probably being extremely dramatic and worrying Joe on top of that. “Fuck, Joe, everything is so, so wrong.”

It occurs to him that Joe has never heard him curse before, has never even heard his teenage voice since puberty worked its magic on his previously almost Hummel-level shrillness. How the man had even recognised it was him, Sebastian will never know. 

“Talk to me. What is wrong right now specifically?”

“I don't know!” cries Sebastian. “Everybody had finally stopped hating me and now they’re doing it all over again and this time I don’t even know why because I’m trying to be good, Joe, really I am, and - and…” 

A heavy sigh filled with paternal concern sounds, breaking Sebastian’s heart even more. He shouldn't be unloading all of his issues onto Joe, he has enough to deal with already. “I believe you, Barry. You’re a good person, never forget that. I’m sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for why they are behaving this way; have you tried asking them?”

“They won’t tell me anything.”

“Maybe they think you’re already aware of the issue then. Have you done anything to unintentionally upset them recently?”

There is no accusation in Joe’s tone which is reassuring. Not everyone immediately jumps to the conclusion that he is a fuck up, at least. “I don't think so,” he murmurs. “I suppose they might be angry that I’ve been distracting Hunter, but that’s been happening for weeks and they’ve never been so cold before. Plus, they’re giving him the silent treatment to and he’s their leader!”

“Leader?”

“The Warblers: they’re Dalton Academy’s show choir. I was the captain last year but they revoked my privileges after last year and brought Hunter in as my replacement,” he explains, suddenly feeling an inexplicable guilt for having not caught up with his original foster father in what feels like a lifetime. He wishes he’d just risked it with Tony and stayed in Central City with the Wests when life was predictable and easy to navigate. 

“Oh. I didn't know you sing, Barry.”

He nods before remembering that Joe cannot see him. No doubt his hair has been thoroughly tousled by the movement and his fellow students would take one look at the mess and assume he’d seduced yet another ‘unsuspecting victim’. Like people don't know what they're getting into when they fall into bed with the promiscuous, cannot-be-tamed Sebastian Henry Smythe. 

“Yeah,” he says, “a bit. I’m going to quit after Sectionals, though. It’s just too much but I can’t back out now because Hunter convinced me to take a solo so if I don’t perform then we’ll be disqualified because we’ll be a song down and my name is on the list of participants already.”

“If it’s something you enjoy then stick with it,” urges Joe as if it were that easy. If only. “Talk to the other Warblers, talk to Hunter, and let them know that you’re confused and upset. Don't bottle it up, Barry, you know that’s not good for you, especially after…” 

After he’d refused to open up about his mother’s murder and still remains stubbornly silent on the matter even now. Right. He’d forgotten how stressful it is being Barry, even more so than Sebastian. 

“I know,” he whispers, unsure if Joe can even hear him over his laboured breathing. “I’ll try. Thanks, Joe.”

“Anytime, kiddo,” the man says earnestly. “I’ve got to get back to work now; I’m doing overtime at the station working on a B and E case for Singh. Just… don't be a stranger, okay?”

“Okay,” Sebastian repeats. “Thanks for, you know, answering and stuff.”

Joe chuckles slightly. “As eloquent as ever. You know you can call me anytime for anything, don't you? It doesn't matter about your parentage or your adoption, you’re still my kid, Barry, and I love you.”

A smaller sob escapes from between his lips but this one is less desperate and more sad. He wishes he’d stayed with Joe and Iris - he wants to go home. “I love you too.” They exchange goodbyes and Joe is just about to hang up when Sebastian hurriedly speaks again. “Joe, do you think you can get time off next weekend?”

“I can certainly try. Why’d you ask?”

“I’d like it if you came to Sectionals, I guess. If you’re busy, it’s totally fine, but I just thought I’d offer since you didn't get to come last year - we lost, though, so it wasn't like you missed much, but…” 

“Barry? Shut up. Iris and I will be there.”

And that’s that. 

He would like to say that everything magically fixes itself over that week, that everybody was just stressing over Sectionals routines and trying to beat the Nude Erections without bullying, blackmail, or assault, but that would be a lie and lying doesn't seem like the sort of thing he should do now that he is a ‘nice guy’ or whatever. The Warblers are more passive aggressive than ever and Hunter is working them to the bone to make sure that they are up to scratch. 

Sebastian had learned one night when Hunter was being uncharacteristically pleasant to be around that he has a scholarship riding on him leading them to victory. He wants to enrol in some prestigious military school or something and he needs a high school diploma which Dalton had been all too willing to offer should he succeed in his endeavour. Now, Sebastian believes in his team and their skills, but he doesn't know that they will win because they aren't unified; just a group of individuals dancing on a stage. 

Two days before Sectionals, he calls them on it. Fuck this whole treading on eggshells routine, he isn't about to be made a fool of on stage in front of Joe and Iris because these losers cannot resolve whatever petty issues they seem to have with Sebastian and Hunter. 

“We’re a fucking team,” he begins his speech with all of the eloquence of a teenage boy who is seriously looking at a fail in his English Literature exam. “We should be united and planning how to celebrate our victory and instead you’re all moping around like the sorriest bunch of sadcases I’ve ever seen. What the fuck is wrong with you all?”

Finally, Dominic, one of the senior Warblers, bites. “Don’t you mean, what the fuck is wrong with you?” he accuses, jabbing a finger at Sebastian’s chest. The others watch with bated breath, no doubt expecting the former captain to lunge at his teammate there and then. As tempting as that may be, he settles for raising an eyebrow expectantly. Just as he’d anticipated, Dominic continues his tirade of abuse. 

“You were our captain once, Sebastian, and yeah, you royally screwed up that one for us but at least you took a step back and promised us that you would change. Hell, you even had the board convinced that you were on the straight-and-narrow, but I guess you’re just that good of an actor, aren't you?”

You could easily hear a pin drop during the ensuing silence. 

Admittedly, Sebastian is taking aback by the ferocity of Dominic’s baffling spiel because he knows that the boy doesn't like him but he hadn't realised his feelings of hatred ran so deeply and that, looking around at the faces of his so-called ’friends’, they were sentiments shared by the masses. 

“First of all, there is nothing straight about me,” he says, unable to resist making the pun even as nobody laughs along. They stare incredulously. Even Hunter Clarington is looking at him with unadulterated confusion as though Sebastian is this puzzle he cannot quite solve. “And I am a damn good actor, but I can assure you that I have no fucking clue what’s crawled up your pathetic ass and died.”

That seems to be the wrong thing to say. “I’m not pathetic!”

Hunter winces, shooting Sebastian a look which clearly reads _“you’ve touched a nerve and it’s definitely my fault… sorry?”_ but it does nothing to ease Sebastian’s frayed nerves. 

“Look, man,” David begins, ever the peacemaker, “we just don't get you. One minute you’re all “I’m the nice guy now, I swear” and the next you’re trailing after Hunter like one of his lackeys, condoning all of this shit he’s doing in the name of winning.”

What the fuck is he referring to? 

“If you’re banging him, that’s cool, but I just never expected the great Sebastian Smythe to turn into somebody’s bitch,” comments a senior Warbler Sebastian has never really associated with because even by his standards the boy has a rotten attitude and a serious case of narcissism with no real evidence to back up why he thinks he is God’s gift to mankind. He doesn't even sing that well, just sways in the background and acts as another bit of eye candy. “Did you blow him for the solo?”

Without thinking, Sebastian dives forward, tackling the stockier boy to the ground and pinning him there. He may be godawful at boxing but he has always excelled in martial arts and he’s had to learn how to defend himself from bullies and handsy drunk men over the years, so this kid is no challenge. 

He lands a punch to the boy’s nose, his jaw, any part of his body available for Sebastian to reach before he is pulled off by arms which hold him back in a vice-like grip. Sebastian doesn't need to turn around to know that Hunter is the one holding him, and the sheer brute strength he is exhibiting proves that he is livid. Honestly, Sebastian cares more about the throbbing of his left eye than he does about whatever hissy fit Hunter will throw at him. 

“What the fuck, you two?” 

Who knew Jeff Sterling was capable of swearing? Sebastian had assumed the boy to be the bastion of temperament yet here he is, standing between the two in question with the most furious expression on his face Sebastian has ever seen. It’s actually unnervingly scary. 

“He started it,” the other boy - Max? Malcolm? Michael? - accuses. “He left us in shambles last year and now he’s too busy fucking Clarington to care that it’s happening all over again!”

“I’m not fucking Clarington,” Sebastian seethes, snatching the icepack that Hunter had procured seemingly from thin air and wincing as he settles it against his injury. “And even if I was, what’s it to you? I’ve had sex with three guys in the same night and still performed better than you the next day, so don't bring my life choices into whatever petty drama you’ve cooked up between yourselves.”

Jeff stares between them, contemplative, then seems to draw a conclusion as he faces Sebastian. “You really don't know, do you?”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Ignoring his rude remark, Jeff looks to Hunter who seems torn between frustration and sheepishness. “Why didn't you tell him? He has a right to know. Besides, you dragged everyone else into it; what makes Sebastian so different?”

Sebastian’s snide, “Besides my devilish good looks and unparalleled talent?” goes ignored. 

“He can handle himself,” Hunter states, arms folded across his chest with a challenging expression. He is daring somebody to disagree and Sebastian cannot help but smirk as nobody offers any disagreement on the matter. “You all needed a boost and he didn't, so he didn't need to know.”

“Know what?” he huffs. “I was literally just physically assaulted and degraded by some jumped up closet case because of whatever this is, so it’s officially my business now, don't you think?”

“I’m not a closet case,” Defensive McNot-That-Hot protests indignantly. “I have a girlfriend!”

Duval scoffs though there is no malice in the sound, only amusement. “Sure you do, Mason.”

Oh. That’s his name. Mason… hadn't he sucked Sebastian off in the broom closet at the end of last year? Or had that been Morgan? Fuck, he can’t keep track of all of this shit. Maybe he should hire a secretary; Hunter would just love to get his hands on a binder, a filing cabinet, and an endless list of names and activities to throw in Sebastian’s face at every opportunity. With their Sectionals win seeming farther and farther away from becoming a reality, Sebastian supposes there is a very real possibility that Hunter may not get his scholarship and then he’ll need to find an actual job, so he’d be doing the boy a favour, really… 

“Since when was this about my sexuality? We were talking about Clarington’s drug problem, weren't we?”

“Drug problem?” 

Sebastian hadn't realised he’d spoken the question aloud until every head swivels in his direction. All except Hunter’s which he buries in his hands, fingers tugging through strands of sandy brown hair. 

“I don't have a drug problem,” he whispers harshly. “It wasn't a fucking problem until you all made it one. Everyone was eager and willing at first and now you’re all coming down from your highs or whatever and acting like toddlers during a tantrum, turning on me like your incompetence is somehow my fault?”

Having never heard Hunter speak so, so _cruelly_ before, Sebastian is rightfully shocked. “What drug problem, Hunter?” he repeats, staring at the boy so intensely that he looks up, maintaining eye contact. His eyes are so haunted, the broken look startlingly familiar, and Sebastian’s heart aches for reasons he cannot even begin to understand. 

“I used to use steroids for competitions back at military school,” he reveals, voice devoid of emotion as his eyes search Sebastian’s face for something Sebastian isn't aware of. He doubts Hunter really knows either. “It wasn't a big deal, everyone was doing it. One of the older kids suggested it and we all agreed. Obviously, we won. We carried on using them, carried on winning, and it was all fine. When I mentioned it to John,” Sebastian knows that John is the beatboxing Warbler who can do more than just make music with that mouth of his, “he thought it would be a good idea, and he asked around. Everyone was on board.”

Sebastian hums. “I wouldn't have been.” Because he knows first hand what drugs can do to a person, what they had done to _him_ , and he wouldn't want any part in that. He doesn't want the Warblers becoming corrupt and losing that innocent glow of youth that Sebastian has never quite been able to replicate. Now that he thinks back on the past few weeks, he knows they already have. 

“I know,” Hunter groans, “which is why I didn't consult you. Besides, you’re a natural performer, Seb, so it’s not like you’d need them. I didn't tell you because you didn't need to know.”

“It’s Sebastian,” he says coldly. It isn't said out of spite or some personal vendetta against Hunter, he simply hates the nickname. Nobody calls him ‘Seb’ or ‘Sebby’, just Sebastian, perhaps a ‘Bas’ thrown into the mix if he deems someone to be deserving of the privilege, but those instances are few and far between. “And you really thought I didn't need to know that my teammates are doped up on drugs, Hunter? Seriously? My father is the fucking state’s attorney: this shit could ruin his reputation.”

Hunter mutters what is no doubt an impressive litany of curse words under his breath. “I didn't say I’d thought it out well,” he says, frustration seeping into his tone as he finally tears his gaze away from Sebastian’s to his polished black loafers. “I’m sorry, alright? We’ll just stop taking them - win, lose or draw with dignity.”

“Performance enhancing drugs can stay in your system for weeks,” Sebastian points out knowingly. “And tests are more advanced these days; hell, sometimes they can detect if you’ve used anything in the past three months! When was the last time you guys thought it would be a brilliant idea to stick needles into your bodies for shits and giggles?”

Duval shifts uncomfortably. “Yesterday afternoon.”

When he had been on the phone to Joe arranging the details for his visit and making plans to surprise Iris with the reunion. Suddenly he isn't so excited for that. 

“Fucking idiots,” mutters Sebastian, pacing the length of the room angrily. Fuck it, he’s not embarrassed to admit that he’s disappointed as well as furious. These kids are supposed to be better, smarter, nicer than he is, than his classmates in Paris had been. Maybe they’re all just the same. 

“What do we do?” Jeff asks fearfully, his previous rage replaced with overwhelming terror as Duval holds him close, cradling the taller boy’s head to his shoulder tenderly. 

Sebastian huffs. “You don't do anything, any of you. You’ve all fucked up enough. Just keep your heads down and your mouths shut and I’ll deal with this.”

Harwood nods his head. “Yeah, okay. We can do that.”

“And Hunter?” The aforementioned boy looks over at Sebastian, trepidation clear as day in his features. “Don’t fucking inject them again, you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

Sebastian storms off back to his room and Hunter thankfully has the common sense to make other arrangements that night. Whilst alone, Sebastian plots and paces and ponders over the past before deciding that plausible deniability is their best bet. As long as nobody utters a word, there will be no reason for anybody to be suspicious, and even if they are, Sebastian will offer his own blood as a sample to prove that they haven't taken anything. They wouldn't put the whole team through such a traumatic ordeal since some of them are only timid freshmen, and if the show choir board would suspect anybody of taking performance enhancers, it would be Sebastian. One look at his record tells them all they need to know. 

He doesn't notice that Trent is absent at that meeting and therefore hadn't been witness to that particularly explosive meeting. It’s for the best, really. 

Sebastian avoids his teammates like the plague between that confrontation and clambering onto the private bus which will transport them to the Sectionals venue. They are all coming down from their highs or whatever and are snappish and generally disagreeable to be around, and he isn't prepared to put up with that shit. Hunter is remarkably in control when he next sees the boy in their room, proverbial tail between his legs as he silently goes about his business. Suddenly, that freakout in The Lima Bean over the (admittedly still hilarious) Splenda incident makes much more sense. Roid raging, of course. Sebastian kicks himself for not seeing the signs sooner. 

They arrive at the venue with time to spare and immediately set about rehearsing. They have to make a few alterations in their line-up because some of the younger boys are not dealing well with their tumultuous emotions and their movements are more sluggish than usual, so they are quickly shoved to the back and replaced with the older, taller boys who will cover them. Considering the severity of the situation, Sebastian thinks this is all going far too easily. 

And then the Nude Erections arrive in all of their public school glory. 

One glance at Blaine Anderson has Sebastian running for the hills. Or, the closest men’s bathroom, at least. An onslaught of memories attack him all at once and it is so disorienting that Sebastian drops to his knees on the filthy floor, clutching his head in vain. 

Blaine’s surgery, the blackmail photographs, Karofsky’s suicide attempt. They are all on Sebastian’s hands and what if everything with the Warblers is his fault too? He hadn't even noticed that they were on fucking drugs, and it’s probably karma for everything that he’s done because everything he touches just crumbles to ash beneath his cursed hands. All of this is his fault, he deserves to suffer, and now Joe and Iris are going to watch him humiliate himself on stage because he can’t pull his shit together for ten minutes. They’re going to lose and it’s going to be his fault. 

Hands on his shoulders cause Sebastian to flinch involuntarily. He looks up, afraid for who he might see, and doesn't know whether to be relieved or angry or _what_ when he sees concerned forest green eyes staring into his own emerald orbs. 

“Hunter,” he manages to spit out, frightened because he can’t breathe and Hunter shouldn't be that blurry, and everything is still spinning out of control. Why can't everything just stop spinning?

“-stian? Sebastian!” Hunter calls frantically, shaking his shoulders, slapping his cheeks, pinching his sides to no avail. Sebastian stares straight through him as though looking at somebody completely different or perhaps at nothing at all. It’s horribly disconcerting. This is Sebastian Smythe, he isn't supposed to look so pitiful, broken, haunted. 

Making a split-second decision that he will later blame on the adrenaline and fear, Hunter surges forward to collide his lips with Sebastian’s. For a moment, the world stops. There are no clichéd fireworks or the eruption of butterflies in his stomach, no tingling sensation or wonderful epiphany. There is just a merging of lips as Sebastian goes rigidly still. Maybe it’s not the smartest approach, but Hunter has watched his father revert into flashbacks and panic attacks and his mother always kisses him, forces him to hold his breath, and uses that time to ground him to the present. 

When Hunter pulls away, Sebastian blinks. 

“Uh, sorry,” he offers awkwardly to the befuddled taller teen. “It’s just the only way I knew how to stop the… you know.”

“Nobody’s ever done that before,” Sebastian says quietly.

Hunter frowns. “What, kissed you?”

The offended look that Sebastian sends his way causes an involuntary chuckle to tumble from Hunter’s lips. _Self-proclaimed slut, right._

“I’m an expert at kissing, Clarington,” he spits without venom, “but I’ve never had someone to - well, to stop the panic attacks, I s’pose.”

Hunter isn't sure why it surprises him that Sebastian Smythe has been the victim of panic attacks in the past, but it does. He’s heard tales, some obviously embellished, others surprisingly not, about the former Warblers captain and seeing this vulnerable side to him just doesn't fit the image he’d built up of the boy over the past couple of months. 

“I’m glad I helped,” he murmurs softly. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Want to tell me what’s right?” Sebastian scoffs. “Everything is wrong, Hunter. I’m wrong.”

“I don't believe that.”

“Oh yeah? Just read my file: it’s all there in black and white. _Sebastian Smythe is volatile. Sebastian Smythe is selfish. Sebastian Smythe is proud of his promiscuity and his temper and his manipulation abilities. Sebastian Smythe is just so wonderful and charming until he causes you to commit suicide._ Don't tell me I’m wrong, Hunter.”

The older boy inhales sharply at the final statement. So that’s what this is about. “You’re upset about that Karofsky bloke?”

Sebastian throws his hands up in the air, cuffing Hunter’s shoulder as he does so. “Of course I’m fucking upset about Karofsky!” he exclaims, bordering on hysterical. “I’m always upset about Karofsky. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about my mother, Hunter: the one who committed suicide because of me!”

Oh. He is so not equipped to deal with this, but it seems that Sebastian has never spoken such words aloud and maybe the fact that he has chosen to trust Hunter with such a revelation is an indication that he is the only person able to tackle such an issue. At least, the first one to find Sebastian in this state. 

“I didn't know that your mother was dead,” he says quietly, hands finding deceptively broad and toned shoulders once more. “I’m so sorry, Seb-,” he takes one look at his companion’s face and hurries to add, “-astian.” That nickname hadn't gone over too well the last time. 

“Both of them,” Sebastian says so quietly that Hunter only just manages to catch it. His heart breaks at the expression on Sebastian’s face in that moment. Lost. Scared. Alone. Fucking hell, nobody deserves this, least of all the boy he has come to equate with happiness, safety, _life_. 

“Both of them?” he prompts. 

“I’m adopted. My biological mother was murdered when I was eleven and my dad was blamed so I was adopted by my aunt and uncle - the Smythes - but then they got divorced and I went to stay with my adoptive mother because I just liked her better, I guess. We lived in Paris for a few years but then we had a fucking awful row and the next morning I tried to find her, to apologise for what I’d done, you know, but she wouldn't answer when I called her name.”

Hunter feels physically sick as he squeezes Sebastian’s shoulders, pulling the boy flush against his chest despite the fact that they are sitting on the floor in a public bathroom. Sebastian doesn't even seem to register that he is burying his nose into the other boy’s neck, breathing in the comforting scent which is so undeniably Hunter. 

“She’d overdosed on her medication during a manic episode in the night according to the doctors,” Sebastian reveals. “It was my fault for upsetting her. I shouldn't have upset her.”

“Hey.” When Sebastian ignores him, Hunter grips his chin with his thumb and index finger, angling Sebastian’s face so that the two are mere inches apart. Sebastian’s hot breath fans across his cheeks, a phantom against his own lips, and Hunter can smell the saltiness of his tears. “Hey, it isn't your fault. You were just a kid - you still are - and kids do stupid shit, Sebastian. You can’t put that kind of guilt on yourself because you couldn't have known. If you had, you would have stopped it.”

“I didn't just say a couple of mean words or slam a door in her face, Hunter,” he says breathlessly. How is he supposed to focus when Hunter is dizzyingly close to him? It’s impossible to look away from the other’s captivating gaze. “I slept with her boyfriend.”

Ah. 

“Had an affair with him, actually. We’d both been drunk one night and it just sort of happened, I s’pose, not that I remember much that time… it obviously happened again and again and again, for months until she found out and fucking hell, Hunt, I’ve never seen her scream and cry like that.”

Despite himself, Hunter feels a smidgen of happiness when Sebastian gives him a nickname seemingly without even noticing. He’s never been one for such a thing, but it sounds nice in Sebastian’s lilting accent. 

“It’s not your fault,” he repeats. 

“I lived under her roof, ate her food, took advantage of her generosity,” Sebastian lists, raking his hands through his previously perfectly coiffed hair. “How is that not my fault?”

“You were a kid,” Hunter states adamantly, ignoring Sebastian’s derisive scoff. “No, listen to me, Sebastian. You were a kid. A kid going through something really traumatic and he took advantage of you whether you want to admit it or not. None of this is your fault.”

Sebastian pulls away then, standing on trembling legs to put distance between the two of them. Hunter might have been offended if not for the fact that Sebastian’s facial features are flitting between uncertainty and defeat - he’d at least gotten through to him on some level. 

“Do you want to perform?”

“Of course I do,” Sebastian answers without missing a beat. “My first foster father is in the crowd with his daughter, my childhood best friend, and I haven't seen them in six years. I can’t let them down too. I won’t.”

With a sigh, Hunter heaves himself to his feet, walking over to the paper towel dispenser and grabbing several before running them under the warm tap water. He steps forward gingerly, hesitating only for a moment before reaching up to begin wiping Sebastian’s cheeks, which he notices flush under his touch, as the other boy distracts himself with fixing his hair. 

“I’m sorry for putting all of that shit on you.”

“I don't mind.”

“Why?”

Hunter shrugs. “Everybody needs somebody to talk to, even the great Sebastian Smythe.”

“You think I’m great?” There is some of that snark he is familiar with. 

“I think you’re alright,” Hunter corrects teasingly, tossing the paper towels away without even looking. He chuckles when Sebastian makes a comment about him showing off. “Jealous?”

“Not even remotely.” The wording makes them both laugh lightly. 

Sebastian sobers up a second later, biting his bottom lip. Without much thought, Hunter reaches out to swipe his thumb along Sebastian’s lip, effectively causing the boy to release it from the harsh biting. 

“What are you doing?” breathes Sebastian uneasily.

Hunter shakes his head, backs away ever so slightly. “Nothing. Are you ready?”

“Honestly? No. I just keep thinking about everything except for the performance and I’m worried I’ll choke mid-song or something.”

“If you do, I’ll be there to make it seem intentional,” Hunter vows seriously. “I’ve got your back, we all have.”

“What if I just start bawling like some stupid baby in the middle of the performance?”

“Think about something else.”

“Like what?”

For the second time in the space of fifteen minutes, Hunter Clarington kisses Sebastian Smythe. This time, it isn't quite so one-sided. There is a messy battle for dominance as lips, tongues, teeth clash with one another. It’s nothing elegant nor loving, but Hunter thinks it’s perfect for them. Imperfect yet oddly beautiful. 

Their foreheads remain pressed together afterward, breathing as one entity in that unassuming bathroom only minutes before they are due to head onto the stage. 

“Not even remotely bicurious?” He swats Sebastian’s arm, revelling in the boy’s melodic laughter. It is arguably more entrancing than even his singing in Hunter’s opinion. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I don't think even I’ve ever converted a military brat before.”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I’ve not been converted. You’re just… different, aren't you?”

“So are you,” Sebastian returns. “You look at me weirdly; I've never been looked at like that before.”

“Like what?”

“Like I mean something,” he reveals softly. “Like you actually care or whatever.”

“Of course I care,” reiterates Hunter. “The fact that you could think otherwise is idiotic.”

“Gee, thanks. Does this mean you’re, like, in love with me or something?”

Hunter shakes his head, brows furrowed and lips quirked downward. “I don't think you can tell if you’re in love with someone by a couple of kisses in a bathroom,” he comments as Sebastian laughs. “But I’d be willing to go out for dinner tomorrow, if you want to.”

“I’m not really a relationship person, Hunter,” Sebastian says awkwardly. 

“And I’m not a one-night-stand person, Sebastian,” he retorts, mirroring the boy’s tone. “I’m not asking you to marry me or something. Let’s just go out as friends and see where it goes.”

Sebastian hesitates then nods sharply. “Yeah, okay. Not tomorrow, though. I have to catch up with Joe and Iris; I’m sorry, but it’s just been ages and…”

He is cut off by a swift peck to his lips. “Not tomorrow. Got it. Have fun with them, Sebastian, I mean it.”

“Thanks. Maybe you can meet them sometime.”

“You’re remarkably forward for somebody who doesn't do relationships.”

“And you’re remarkably into this whole date idea for somebody who isn't even remotely bicurious.” Sebastian grins and it is so painstakingly familiar as it is filled with Sebastian’s typical confident bravado, that it makes Hunter grin right back at him. “Besides, we’ve got to Live While We’re Young, right?”

Hunter laughs. “If that’s your lame attempt at getting me to make a joke about blowjobs, then you’ll be severely disappointed.”

“Ah, well. Worth a shot. I’ll make a confident gay man of you yet, Clarington.”

“We’ll see. Come on, we’ve got some public school kids to wipe the floor with.”

“I love it when you talk dirty,” Sebastian says with an exaggerated moan. 

Steroids or no steroids, tears or no tears, they are going to do this. And Sebastian doesn't mess up like he’d feared because his mind is racing with thoughts of Hunter’s lips pressed against his own and his vision is obscured by happy tears this time as he spots a proud Joe beside a wide-eyed, squealing Iris. They certainly have a lot of catching up to do. 

For now, he sings his heart out. For himself, for those he’s lost and those he’s found, and for Hunter who is still the most annoying boy he’s ever met, but Sebastian finds that he doesn't mind that as much as he’d first thought. 


	2. Clarington's Calendar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunter's POV: August through December. 
> 
> He's always known he would be a soldier: cold and commanding, always one step ahead of his opposition and with an air of superiority about him. And then he meets Sebastian Smythe, sees how far the mighty can fall, and has some serious rethinking to do.
> 
> (This isn't my best work but I loved writing from Hunter's perspective and I'm sort of pleased with it...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hunter's POV: August through December.
> 
> It's been a while. I'm sorry. I've mostly been active on my Wattpad account (@detectiveperalta) but I'm back here with the second instalment. This was supposed to span the whole academic year but it is bordering on ten thousand words already so I figured I'd include the rest in the next chapter.

**AUGUST**

**HUNTER CLARINGTON IS EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD AND HIS WHOLE LIFE IS A FUCKING MESS.**

Okay, so maybe he is being slightly dramatic but he thinks he’s entitled to be given that his future, the one which has been seemingly set in stone since before he was even conceived, is crumbling to ash right before his very eyes and he only has himself to blame. Well, himself and that idiot Mathers, but nobody had cared much for the semantics of his story. 

He, after all, is the one with the history of anger management issues and a string of unsuccessful counsellors and doctors who couldn't pinpoint exactly where Hunter’s uncontrollable rage seems to manifest from. It just appears, an inky blackness dropping like a veil over his sight and then a second (or maybe an hour: he’s never really sure how long it lasts) later he will blink, the light will return, and the damage has been done. Some people say that they see red during episodes of anger, but Hunter’s vision will darken, his fists will spasm, and when he next checks they are usually bleeding. Oftentimes, somebody’s face will be too. 

The military academy had been good for him. Taking orders had been mind-numbingly boring and his commanding officers were typically bigoted idiots who let the power go to their heads, but the structure and regime of it all was easy to follow, easy to work his whole life and personality around. Hunter is good at adapting, most of the time. 

Even after three years at the academy, there are still episodes of ‘psychotic rage’. He learns to take it out on pillows, then punching bags and sparring partners; he learns to control his fists with his brain whenever he gets worked up over the minor incidents which would usually send him into a tailspin of darkness and violence. 

The Incident was not a minor one. 

He doesn't mention it much because, in all honesty, Hunter doesn't really know what happened. He’d been subjected to the images of what his fists, feet, nails had done to the face of the man lying unconscious in a hospital bed, but he doesn't remember actually doing it. The veil had fallen and his dark side had taken over for the first time in a long time. 

It also happened to be the worst time. Hell, the man had to have surgery to realign his spine because apparently Hunter had given him some powerful kicks while he was down on the ground, blood oozing from every crevice, every cut and bruise caused by flying fists and well-aimed stomps. Perhaps he isn't quite right in the head after all because, before the shock and shame can really settle in his stomach, Hunter feels a sick sense of satisfaction. Yes, he shouldn't have lost his temper and gone so far, but the man had deserved a good beating whether anybody else is willing to acknowledge it or not. They aren't. 

Hunter tries not to dwell on The Incident, but between courtroom visits and a never-ending stream of letters and emails and phone calls (some official like from the military academy or the hospital, others from nosy, prying associates he’d made at the academy who crave gossip the way that bees crave pollen) it is difficult to focus on anything else, really. He throws himself into exercising, working out in their home gym and going for long, morning runs at the crack of dawn, not stopping until his lungs are contracting at a mile a minute and he thinks his legs may permanently give way from the exertion. When exercise only helps to a degree, Hunter purchases a cat, Mr. Puss, of all the names, because he figures the extra responsibility will be time-consuming at the very least. 

Except he starts talking to the creature, a pillow clutched tightly to his chest as he talks to the feline about his problems like a lovesick teenage girl in a cheesy nineties romcom. Is this what he is reduced to without being surrounded by testosterone and overly-macho military boys? No wonder the men in his family have been commanders and soldiers for generations if this is the alternative. Still, Mr. Puss doesn't judge him - doesn't fuss over him like his mother or eye him with stoicism, an unreadable expression on his ageing features like his father. He wonders what they must really think of him, their only son, beating a man half to death without providing a reasonable explanation. The one he does have, the truth, feels like something that wouldn't go over too well. Saying nothing is better than saying that, he knows. 

He waits a few weeks before deciding to scope out other military schools, mostly in different states because he has lived in colorado for twelve years now and it’s time for a change. He’s always fancied living somewhere with more culture and buildings, a bigger population of interesting people to study and converse with: nowhere quite as pretentious as New York nor as cliched as Los Angeles, of course. He has class if nothing else. But the one that really stands out is in Washington and their entry requirements are sky-high. Hunter has the brains, the training, the precision to thrive there, he is quite sure of that, and the only thing he is missing is the necessary high school diploma. Like, from an actual non-military school. Regular school, be it public or private, is never something that Hunter has considered simply because he’d doubted it was ever in the cards for him: his father makes most of the decisions concerning Hunter’s life, for his own good, of course, so Hunter hadn't thought for a second that he would be signing papers to attend some preppy all boys boarding school in Ohio of all the places. 

“They’ve offered you a full scholarship, son,” his father says, no small amount of pride (or respect, Hunter isn't sure but whichever it is makes him feel warm inside) in his tone. “They were impressed by your show choir success and they want you to lead theirs to a Nationals victory this year, alright?”

“Yes, dad,” he says, signing his year away on the dotted line. “What’s wrong with them, though? Why can’t they do it themselves?”

His father frowns slightly. “It’s an old school funded by old money. Most of the kids there have trust funds larger than a man’s lifelong salary and with that wealth comes disobedience and disregard for the rules. Most of the Dalton Academy boys are well-behaved as far as the dean told me, but their show choir, the Warblers, got into a spot of trouble last year and their captain is no longer fit to lead.”

“So they want me to take his place? If he’s unstable or something, won’t he come after me and my position?”

At that, his father actually chuckles, clapping Hunter hard on the shoulder. It’s strange to see him so jovial when he has been so cold and distant for weeks now. “I think you can handle yourself, Hunter.”

Let’s just hope he doesn't actually kill somebody this time. 

  
  
  


**SEPTEMBER**

  
  
  


He doesn't enrol at Dalton until October because his mother suggests he takes some time for himself to go sightseeing and get acquainted with his surroundings and the locals. Honestly, Hunter isn't planning to leave the school unless he absolutely has to, so spending almost a month wandering aimlessly seems pretty fucking stupid to him. Of course, he is a mother’s boy at heart and if she wants him to do something then he damn well will whether he likes it or not. 

Ohio is about as interesting as philately to Hunter and not much more exciting either. He knows that Columbus has some interesting sights and Lima has a buzzing nightlife of teenage delinquents who drink too much but throw wild parties (he’d had a friend at the military academy, a kid named Matt Rutherford, and he’d talked incessantly about his life back in Lima like it was the greatest thing to ever happen to him) but Westerville is filled mostly with snobbish rich people and overpriced cafes, so Hunter doesn't do much of anything in the intermission between summer and starting school. 

Well, he catches up with work - he has three years worth of content on the syllabus to study, after all, since algebra and Shakespeare hadn't been important where he’d come from - but Hunter is bright and resourceful and he hardly has to blink before he grasps these mostly simply concepts. God, is this really what these people spend four years studying? What a waste. He even dares to venture out a couple of times but finds that the only place worth its salt within a twenty mile radius is a bar called Scandals which, only after a visit there on a Thursday evening, Hunter discovers is actually a gay bar. Despite that, he actually enjoys the atmosphere, the conversations that flow as easily as the alcohol once he flashes his fake ID at the bouncer guarding the door who doesn't even bat an eyelid at it as he lets Hunter pass him. 

A few guys try to hit on him, but he subjects them to the  _ “Sorry, I’m straight”  _ spiel which makes them chuckle enough to walk away. He returns the following Thursday, and the one after that, and eventually learns to say,  _ “I’m seeing someone”  _ or  _ “My boyfriend will be here soon”  _ because apparently nobody believes that he might just be here because he’s bored and he likes the vibes here rather than that he’s a horny teenage boy looking for a quick fuck in a filthy bathroom stall. Yeah, right. He wonders how many of these men, some of whom could easily be in their late fifties, have managed to charm their way into an underraged kid’s pants. He quickly stops wondering because the answer, if it is more than zero, makes him feel queasy. 

  
  
  


**OCTOBER**

  
  
  


Once the academic year begins for Hunter on October first, he doesn't return to Scandals, tells himself it’s because he’s too busy and not because upon entering the school premises (which is even fancier than the hotel his father had graciously put him up in) he immediately notices how naive and kind these boys are and how easily they could be taken advantage of. He doesn't want to be there to see it. But yeah, he’s totally busy. 

He spends the day filling in forms and shaking hands with the faculty who promise him that he will  _ “fit right in”  _ and  _ “thrive in the Dalton Academy environment as all great young men do”  _ and then listens to the contradictory warning he receives afterward about his new roommate who is  _ “somewhat temperamental and you shouldn't antagonise him; if he does anything you deem suspicious or noteworthy, report it to a member of staff immediately”  _ which Hunter loosely translates as his assigned roommate is the epitome of a lunatic and is only still on campus because his parents send a hefty check Dalton’s way every term. Wonderful. 

The dean introduces him to the Warblers at five pm that day, gives them an encouraging smile as she boasts about his accolades and stellar record, leaving out the rather crucial mentions of his anger issues and the military academy staff member currently on an indeterminable leave as he recovers from surgeries and stitches all caused by Hunter. Well, Hunter and the guy’s own stupidity but again, nobody had cared much for that part of the story. 

He tries his hardest to make a good first impression by directing his speech mostly at the boys he immediately picks out as Lost Boys - yes he’s taking inspiration from Peter Pan but damnit, that guy was a strong leader, wasn't he? - the ones with the doe eyes and the slumped postures who look a second away from throwing themselves at his feet to beg for his aid, and he manipulates that until he’s got a thousand inside jokes with them even before he knows their names. Keeping things light and fun at first is the key, and Hunter has always been good at tilting an exchange on its axis just to make himself seem like more of a hero in the eyes of these little lost sheep. 

Of course, there is always the one that breaks the mold. He is tall, a couple of inches on Hunter himself who stands at six foot nothing, not broad like Hunter though with his lithe muscles and long legs, and his eyes glisten like emeralds. Immediately, Hunter picks him out as a troublesome lad because he just has the expression of one with his lazy smirks and effortless grace. When he speaks, there is a lilting tone which has only a twinge of Ohioan in it, suggesting he was perhaps born and raised elsewhere. Interesting. 

When he deduces that this troublemaker is none other than his new, possibly psychotic roommate, Sebastian Smythe, Hunter isn't surprised in the least. The kid has a face for mischief and misconduct and the warning the dean had given to him replays in his head: a fitting scripture for this boy. Hunter matches him easily in wit and stride, following behind him as Sebastian leads him to their dormitory. The other boy rushes through the near empty corridors no doubt intent upon losing Hunter but he’s been doing drills and runs and all manners of exercise for years now every single day, so he stays on Sebastian’s heels until they reach the senior commons and stop outside of room number twenty three. 

“Let’s hope you’re as competent a dancer as you are a stalker,” is all Sebastian says after unlocking the door and storming in, throwing himself down on his double bed. 

The room is huge, bigger than he’d imagined a dormitory at a private school to be, that is. He’d expected two single beds cramped together, separated by a small nightstand or maybe a wardrobe. But this room is easily as big as Hunter’s own at home with two double beds lined with navy blue bedding, two wardrobes and nightstands, a large rug and several shelves lining the room which remain mostly untouched. The wall opposite the beds has a television mounted on it, and the wall Sebastian’s bed is pressed against has a few postcards and posters stuck on it, mostly of French movies or science-related puns. A secret nerd. Huh. Who'd have thought it?

Hunter settles on his own bed, letting Mr. Puss free from his carrier as the furball curls up on his stomach. “I’m sorry you were demoted as captain of the Warblers,” Hunter murmurs into the evening. It’s early still but the dean had let them order some pizzas for ‘bonding purposes’ so the boys, full and exhausted, had retired early. 

He hears a sharp intake of breath but it is released as a heavy sigh. “Whatever,” Sebastian scoffs, “I deserved it. You benefited from it anyway, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Hunter says honestly, “but it must still be horrible for you. I hope you’ll put the team first going forward and cooperate, though.”

“I don't play well with others,” Sebastian replies, “but I also don't lose. Don't worry, Clarington, it’s not my eccentric charm that you need to worry about: focus on uniting those gaylords.”

And okay, Hunter had introduced himself as  _ “not even remotely bicurious”  _ but that’s just standard introductions where he comes from considering most of his acquaintances had been bigoted homophobics (and likely some closet cases, he assumes) and he really isn't against same-sex relationships at all. The prospect of his roommate being yet another ignorant bastard in a long line of them disturbs Hunter more than it should. Aren't most of the guys here gay anyway? What else is there to do around here besides hooking up with your classmates? 

“What’s wrong with them being gay?” Sebastian surely cannot see his frown in the dark, especially considering that Hunter has turned his back on the other boy now. Mr. Puss has moved to the foot of the bed now instead, sleeping soundly. 

And then he hears it. Sebastian is laughing. Actually, he’s chuckling so loudly and without stopping that he almost sounds like he’s choking. “Sorry,” he splutters after a solid forty seconds of this, “It’s just… Mr. Not Even Remotely Bicurious is secretly an advocate for gay rights? How ironic.”

“I can be straight and still support gay rights,” Hunter huffs. “You should try it.”

“Being straight? Yeah, hard pass from me, thank you very much.”

Oh.  _ Oh.  _

Well now he feels like a fucking idiot. He can’t get the words out, doesn't really know what he’d say anyway, so he closes his eyes and tries his hardest to drift off to sleep. 

As it turns out, Sebastian makes him feel uncomfortable like that an awful lot. Hunter prides himself on being cool, calm and collected, but Sebastian, he quickly comes to learn, is a wild card. Unpredictable, unstable, but there is never a dull moment with him around. Maybe he gets on Hunter’s nerves and maybe he makes comments which at the very least border on inappropriate (some are downright incriminating and elude to illegal activities) but at least he’s fun to be around unlike a lot of the more uptight boys. 

That isn't to say that Sebastian is easy to get along with because fucking hell, he really isn't. Sebastian is temperamental, always flitting between helpfulness and sarcastic barbs, and Hunter realises early on that the Warblers are split rather heatedly on whether they love or hate Sebastian. Surprisingly, more people lean toward the latter and, while Hunter knows that the boy is something of an acquired taste, he isn't too sure why people seem so adamant in Sebastian being the Devil Incarnate. He tries to ask Sebastian once but the boy clams up, tells him quite plainly to  _ “fuck off”  _ and he lets it go. 

Well, he lets it go when in the presence of Sebastian, that is. He actually just goes to Nicholas Duval who seems to be firmly on Team Evil Smythe which is amusing since the boy’s peroxide boyfriend is the posterboy for Team Angelic Sebastian. The poor, naive fool. 

Duval tells him all he needs to know, though even he looks sheepish at the thought of spilling Sebastian’s secrets even after everything. And Hunter understands why because the things that Duval says, the secrets that spill from his lips like poisoned honey, are nothing less than illegal. They could have ruined their reputation if this got out, soiled a name which has been respected for decades, and all for what? Because Sebastian had wanted to get off with some guy named Blaine Anderson? Pathetic. From the other stories he’s heard of Sebastian Smythe in all of his glory, this doesn't quite add up. The same Sebastian who has fucked half of the Dalton population (faculty included, if the rumours are to be believed) had gone all starstruck, heart-eyed and sappy for some public school boy in a committed relationship? A real waste.

He asks around about Anderson a lot. The Warblers admire the guy, place him on this pedestal that neither Sebastian nor Hunter could ever hope to climb high enough to reach (and maybe Sebastian’s real shortcoming was that he cared enough to try to rival Blaine, to put himself on that level and take over the position whereas Hunter is smart enough to know that he will succeed by being his own person, not trying to recreate the success of past leaders). 

So Hunter begins to scheme with only one goal in mind: bring back Blaine Anderson. 

Getting Sebastian on board isn't difficult. His newfound ‘nice guy’ persona is conditional, it seems, and the chinks in his armour are activated by the following buzzwords: New Directions, slushie, rock salt, Kurt Hummel, parents, prison, Blaine Anderson, Paris, and drugs. Hunter isn't quite sure how they all fit together, but Sebastian is an enigma, a puzzle to be solved, and it’s as thrilling as it is baffling. Besides, he has nine months to figure the guy out and that, he strongly believes, will be far more satisfying than any Nationals win could ever be. 

  
  
  


**NOVEMBER**

  
  
  


His plan is so simple, it’s brilliant. 

The Warblers would follow Blaine to the ends of the Earth and it only concerns Hunter a little that they put more effort into learning the routine for  _ Dark Side  _ to sway Blaine back to their side than they have been for Sectionals preparations for the last six weeks. If he can just get Blaine back on side then the team will come together like a beautiful bouquet and they can finally focus on Sectionals which are less than two months away. They have some song suggestions and some generic choreography courtesy of Sebastian and Sterling, but nothing concrete yet. Maybe Blaine’s triumphant return will give his fellow Warblers some charity and sensibility.

Stealing the trophy is remarkably easy. Hunter waltzes right through the doors of William McKinley High School dressed in a v-neck and a leather jacket, one of the freshman Warblers at his side, and takes it from the choir room without anybody batting an eyelid at him. Honestly, he should have come alone because he didn't even need the whole  _ “I’m showing my little brother around because he’s thinking of transferring due to bullying”  _ tale he’d spent the previous evening concocting - in fact, the kid is only a hindrance as he gets distracted flirting with all of the mildly attractive public school girls like he’ll never see a female again. It would probably be for the best, the kid is a menace with his flashy smiles and his cheesy pickup lines; clearly he’s a member of Sebastian’s entourage. 

They retrieve the trophy with no bother, returning to Dalton with enough time to film the dramatic  _ Godfather-esque  _ video to email off to the New Directions. He remembers why he chose the freshman now: he’s a bloody good video editor as he makes the whole thing seem ominous, suggesting that they obscure Hunter’s face because there is no doubt in the kid’s mind that Blaine will come running in all guns blazing if he thinks Sebastian is behind this little stunt. Forget Sebastian, Hunter should recruit this kid as his own minion because the boy is a certified evil genius. Hunter should probably learn his name first, mind you. 

As expected, Blaine storms in and caves once he’s wearing the Dalton Academy blazer and is reunited with his lost brethren. They sing and dance and Hunter doesn't really understand what all of the fuss is about. Yes, Blaine is a natural born performer, but do the Warblers not realise how much better Sebastian clearly is? The disgraced captain’s choreography is a hundred times more complicated yet not as flashy and over-the-top as Blaine is when he bounces on the furniture and tries to get all up in Hunter’s personal space. Sebastian is graceful, classy, elegant: he can perform with an effortless ease which Hunter notes instantaneously that Blaine lacks. So yeah, the guy has a killer voice and some pretty good moves, but he doesn't hold the same natural charisma and presence that Sebastian does and he fucking hates that everybody is too awestruck over Anderson to even notice. 

What he really, really hates, though, is the fact that even  _ Sebastian  _ seems to look to Blaine Anderson as if he is a God, some otherworldly being who should be treasured and admired, and the usually arrogant boy doesn't seem to notice that he has more talent in his little finger than Anderson has in all of his bowtie-wearing, furniture-disregarding glory. It’s ludicrous. 

Hunter, for once in his life, hopes that his plans won’t succeed because fuck it, he doesn't even want Blaine Anderson to come back anymore. He wants to make Sebastian the star, to show the boy how much he is worth because for all of his ill-timed quips and irritating eccentricities, Sebastian is just the better option. A true star. Hunter knows that he, himself, is good, but Sebastian is something else entirely. 

Thankfully, he doesn't succeed. Anderson returns later on adorning some ridiculous superhero outfit with a blonde sidekick to boot and steals the trophy back (which, really, is an exaggeration because Hunter had done everything but leave a sticky note saying:  _ “I don't want this anymore”  _ as he left it right out in the open for Blaine to easily snatch) and he and Sebastian watch from a balcony, perplexed but otherwise amused. 

“I told you he wouldn't come back,” utters Sebastian as they watch the retreating figures sprint away as though somebody were actually chasing them. “His heart is at McKinley now, or some equally sentimental bullshit.”

Hunter shrugs one shoulder, continues looking out at the horizon because he doesn't want to face Sebastian when he says what he’s about to say. It feels like an admission he shouldn't share, some sort of dirty, shameful secret that should never see the light of day, even though he really just wants to give the guy an innocent, entirely truthful, compliment. 

“We don’t need Blaine Devon Anderson to win,” Hunter states. 

Sebastian frowns. “How’d you know his middle name?” Then snorts. “Devon. How strangely fitting; a seaside town name for the sunniest guy you’ll ever meet.”

Ironic, yes, but not relevant. Hunter tries to steer the conversation back down the road he wants to travel on. “My sources are not pertinent,” he dismisses, waving his hand as though to dispel the thought entirely. “The point is that Blaine isn't half as good as you and the others promised he would be.”

Much to his surprise, and amusement, Sebastian gapes at him. “Are you being serious? Oh my God, you are. Did you not see him out there, Clarington? He’s flawless.”

“No he isn't. You are all just blinded by your rose-tinted adoration of the guy. Blaine is good, but you’re better, Sebastian. If anybody is going to lead the Warblers to a Nationals victory, it’s you.”

“I’m not the captain,” Sebastian says, sounding more like an accusation than anything. Like Hunter may have deliberately usurped him rather than the reality of him having simply benefited from Sebastian’s misfortune. “If you can’t lead them, that’s your problem.”

“I want you at my side,” Hunter persists, “a co-captain, if you will. Someone who will lead the team with unity and precision. I have them all on side, but they’ll always be faithful to you, Sebastian, whether you choose to believe me or not.”

It’s clear on the other boy’s features that he doesn't. “Why don't you just lead them yourself? They won’t follow me if you don't give them a reason to. Besides, I’m not allowed to be captain anymore, the dean’s orders.”

“It won’t be an official title,” he concedes, “but you’ll be a leader in all the ways that matter.”

“What makes you think that I want to lead?”

“Because you were born to do it.” Hunter leaves Sebastian to think about that, retreating to the lunch hall to pretend to commiserate with the other show choir members about the repeated loss of their former soloist. Sebastian doesn't show up, the others crack a few jokes about him sulking over lost love or something equally cringeworthy, and Hunter excuses himself early with a cheese sandwich and a green apple wrapped up in cling film. Sebastian needs to eat something - if he doesn't, he’ll be unable to perform well during rehearsals the next day. 

If Hunter focuses hard enough, he might actually believe that is the reason he’s so concerned for Sebastian’s wellbeing. 

“How’d you know I like cheese?” Sebastian asks him when he hands the goods over. 

Hunter grins. “You lived in France. I made an assumption.”

Sebastian grins right back at him. 

His offer is accepted two days later. He’s a co-captain now and the shared leadership doesn't bother him because Sebastian is an asset. In saying that, he does lose some respect for needing backup, from Sebastian Smythe, no less, but he cannot bring himself to care. Besides, Sebastian boosts their choreography, sharpens their vocals, improves their steps and twirls and harmonies without breaking a sweat. He’s a team player, despite Hunter’s initial reservations on the matter. Sebastian’s precision combined with Hunter’s placation and authority make for a well-oiled machine and the team flourish under their combined management. 

Well, some more than others. 

Himself and Sebastian are immaculate, he thinks with only an ounce of arrogance, and some of the others like Sterling and Duval are pretty good too. Harwood is a strong contender for the top spot and Wilson and Thompson are up there as well, but the rest are beginning to succumb to exhaustion and Hunter isn't about to let it happen. 

He calls an old friend who hooks him up with an associate in Ohio (because of course his shady friends have shady friends in a shady state) and he returns to Dalton Academy on a Saturday evening armed with a trunk containing some morally (not to mention legally) ambiguous substances. Despite his earlier conversation with John, his doubts have not been completely assuaged. The Warblers want to win, of course, but at what cost? Will they sacrifice their dignity, their reputation, their health just for the thrill of hoisting a trophy up at Sectionals? 

The answer, Hunter is somewhat surprised to learn, is yes, yes they will. 

They take the steroids, all except Sterling who cites that the lacrosse team can legally be subjected to random drug testing whenever their coach sees fit as they are a critically ranked sports team, and Hunter doesn't protest because he’s too stumped that there is an intelligent mind underneath that blindingly blonde hairdo and the unwavering, sometimes downright insane, loyalty he displays most notably to one Sebastian Smythe.

His only rule: Sebastian must not find out. And for a while, that works like a charm. 

After all, Sebastian is preoccupied with the weight of the world on his shoulders now that he is the co-captain of both the Warblers and the lacrosse team, and he is managing a solo on top of that. Seeing Sebastian looking genuinely shocked that he’d been offered one of the two solos at the competition made Hunter inexplicably sad because Sebastian, for all of his cocky bravado, really doesn't seem to realise just how talented he truly is. 

“You realise putting your faith in me is risky, don't you?”

Hunter pats him on the shoulder. “What can I say? I’m a betting man, Sebastian Smythe.”

  
  
  


**DECEMBER**

  
  
  


December: a time for joyousness and festivities galore! Christmas is fast approaching, carols are being sung at every turn, and the student council of Dalton Academy really have gone above and beyond with their decorations and their mission to spread seasonal cheer even to those who do not celebrate the Christian holiday. 

Hunter finds that the month is fucking miserable, and he does not use those words lightly. 

His mother wants him home for Christmas but he gets the impression that his father wants him to stay away because he receives no correspondence from the man aside from an occasional text reading:  _ “I hope you’re behaving accordingly and excelling at school”  _ or sometimes a warmer  _ “I hope you’re doing well, son”  _ no doubt forced upon him by his wife. So Hunter decides to rip off the proverbial band-aid and just call his father to ask what he would like them to do going forward, man-to-man. 

Sebastian is in their dormitory already, on the phone to somebody whose identity remains a mystery. A lot about Sebastian remains a mystery, really. Even after two months of bunking with the younger boy, Hunter is still no closer to discovering anything particularly interesting or insightful about him. Sebastian is a private person and Hunter begrudgingly respects that. 

Deciding that his phone call can wait, Hunter grabs the trunk from underneath his bed and instead heads to where he knows the Warblers will be waiting for him in fifteen minutes time. He figures if the worst comes to the worst, he can put on a smile and pretend he and his father are okay for two weeks. How hard could it possibly be?

They take their doses without complaint. Well, Trent complains but more so because Hunter loudly calls him out as  _ “Sensitive”  _ which is entirely true and he won’t apologise for it. Trent is sensitive, Dominic is pathetic, and the rest of them are something in between. Trent storms off and Hunter should be worried but he can’t bring himself to be as he pours some of the performance enhancer into his mouth from the syringe, revelling in the taste he had craved for the months he’d not had the sweet release of it. 

He’s still getting used to the feeling again, case in point: The Splenda Incident. He still isn't sure who posted that video online, only that at least three thousand of the thirty-five hundred hits are surely Sebastian who plays the video whenever he needs a pick-me-up, be it at ridiculous o’clock in their room or in the middle of classes (or once when Hunter had been incredibly subtle about handling his  _ business  _ under the covers, some uninteresting television soap opera playing to smother his muffled noises - healing himself ranting and raving about splenda had certainly been a mood killer, that’s for sure). 

God, his roommate is a menace. 

It’s a day later when the truth comes out. It’s as dramatic as Hunter had known it would be, but much quieter. Sebastian had seemed resigned, disappointed perhaps, but he hadn't done any more than slightly raise his voice, a far cry from the chair-throwing, hair-pulling tantrum Hunter had expected him to throw at having been kept out of the loop of such a monumental decision. 

He takes the drug news substantially better than the earlier insinuation that he and Hunter are fucking out their frustrations which shouldn't offend him as much as it does. He’s an attractive guy and Sebastian fucking knows it if his leering and thinly-veiled sexual innuendos are any indication. Hell, Hunter is sometimes purposely provocative around the boy simply because it’s a part of this strange cat-and-mouse game they seem to have fallen into with a natural ease. To watch Sebastian clobber some guy just for making a snide comment about it is as perturbing as it is disheartening. 

Not that Hunter wants to fuck Sebastian. No. That would be crazy. Plus, ‘fucking’ is such a crude term; he’s been raised to behave like a gentleman and somehow that word doesn't scream ‘gentlemanly’ to him. He isn't one of those lovesick romantics who call it ‘making love’ either, but he doesn't understand why people need an entire thesaurus of synonyms just to talk about having sex. What’s wrong with the word sex? Jesus Christ, he’s really overthinking this. 

Sebastian rightfully avoids them over the coming days, shooting them frosty glares or shaking his head in condescending disappointment when he passes them as though he is the beacon of light and virtue and they have brought great shame to his untarnished record or something equally stupid. Okay, so taking steroids had been a slight miscalculation on his part, but the team had willingly participated so Hunter cannot shoulder all of the blame here. After the events of last year, Hunter had assumed Sebastian might understand why he’d been so desperate to win, to put himself and the Warblers back on the map, but Sebastian just looks sad whenever they make eye contact, like he’d wanted better for Hunter and he’d let him down. 

And fuck if that actually makes him feel like the lowest of the low. 

Sectionals is only a couple of hours away by bus but it feels like an eternity for Hunter who is sandwiched between Trent (aka his least favourite Warbler, tied with Dominic) and the window, Sebastian several rows behind looking surly and off-putting as he sits alone in brooding contemplation. Trent doesn't try to talk to him and Hunter is grateful for it as he stares out of the window and thinks about nothing and everything. It’s ten days until he leaves for Colorado Springs; he’d spoken to his father over the phone who told him, in as kind a voice as his awkwardly affectionate, stern-faced father could muster, that he was not only welcome home but expected to be there. At least something is going his way.

Sebastian seems adamant in his steadfast aloofness, ignoring them all unless forced to answer a direct question. Hunter would be more pissed off except he’s enjoying the reprieve. If the only two options are the silent treatment or an explosive row, he’ll take the uncomfortable silence any day of the week. At least this way he can still be close to Sebastian. 

Woah. Okay. When had he come to hold Sebastian’s presence and opinion of him in such high regard? That’s an existential crisis that he really doesn't need right now.

They sign in and head backstage, a couple of minutes early but not so much so that they had enough time to really hash out any of their work. Sebastian states his name, turns on the charm when the young woman behind the desk tries to hold them there for too long with her incessant questions and unsubtle flirting techniques, but otherwise doesn't say too much. 

And then those public school morons arrive. 

Now, Sebastian isn't the most tanned fellow in the world, but he’s never looked so pale as he does when Blaine Anderson skips into the auditorium, a spring in his step as he chats animatedly with his blonde sidekick and an Asian girl Hunter has never seen before. He doesn't even excuse himself as he rushes away, headed in the direction of the toilets. 

Sterling steps forward, breaking formation and beginning to follow after him. Hunter holds out a hand to halt him. 

“I’ll go,” he says. “Lead the rest of them in a warm up.”

“You’ll go?” Sterling repeats, half surprised, half sceptical. 

Hunter nods. “Yes. I’ll go. I’m the captain and he’s a team member: he needs help and I’ll offer it.”

“Sebastian is different,” the other boy stresses. “You have to tread on eggshells around him about certain topics… it’s hard sometimes. Just don't say anything too heavy, yeah?”

Unsure of what exactly constitutes ‘heavy’, Hunter nods his agreement and wanders off in the direction Sebastian had disappeared off to. He finds the boy on the ground of the filthy bathroom stall, hands clutching his hair and tugging at a strength that seems to be edging on painful.

He places his hands on Sebastian’s shoulders, feels the boy flinch beneath his hold. When emerald green eyes meet his own forest green ones, Sebastian looks utterly lost. It’s heartbreaking. He isn't even sure if Sebastian is really seeing him in that moment: it certainly doesn't seem like it. 

“Hunter,” he chokes out, swaying slightly. Hunter has the sudden alarming thought that Sebastian might pass out or something. Oh God, what if he dies or something? Five months he’s been away from the military academy and suddenly all of his patience and rationale has been thrown out of the window which doesn't seem to be letting any air into the stuffy room. It’s stifling. Suddenly Hunter feels like he might be the one to pass out. 

“-stian? Sebastian!” Hunter calls frantically, shaking his shoulders, slapping his cheeks, pinching his sides to no avail. Sebastian stares straight through him as though looking at somebody completely different or perhaps at nothing at all. It’s horribly disconcerting. This is Sebastian Smythe, he isn't supposed to look so pitiful, broken, haunted. 

It makes Hunter feel helpless, like he’s watching this scene through a screen, completely disconnected and no amount of banging against the glass can garner the attention of Sebastian.

Making a split-second decision that he will later blame on the adrenaline and fear, Hunter surges forward to collide his lips with Sebastian’s. For a moment, the world stops. There are no clichéd fireworks or the eruption of butterflies in his stomach, no tingling sensation or wonderful epiphany. There is just a merging of lips as Sebastian goes rigidly still. Maybe it’s not the smartest approach, but Hunter has watched his father revert into flashbacks and panic attacks and his mother always kisses him, forces him to hold his breath, and uses that time to ground him to the present. 

When Hunter pulls away, Sebastian blinks. 

“Uh, sorry,” he offers awkwardly to the befuddled taller teen. “It’s just the only way I knew how to stop the… you know.”

“Nobody’s ever done that before,” Sebastian says quietly.

Hunter frowns. “What, kissed you?”

Is it strange for Hunter to think of Sebastian as the most kissable person he has ever met? Probably. Does that make it any less true? He fucking wishes.

The offended look that Sebastian sends his way causes an involuntary chuckle to tumble from Hunter’s lips.  _ Self-proclaimed slut, right.  _

“I’m an expert at kissing, Clarington,” he spits without venom, “but I’ve never had someone to - well, to stop the panic attacks, I s’pose.”

Hunter isn't sure why it surprises him that Sebastian Smythe has been the victim of panic attacks in the past, but it does. He’s heard tales, some obviously embellished, others surprisingly not, about the former Warblers captain and seeing this vulnerable side to him just doesn't fit the image he’d built up of the boy over the past couple of months. He reminds himself once more that he really knows nothing about Sebastian at all, does he? He sees only what Sebastian wants him to see. Damnit, he’s going to change that if it kills him. 

Death by Sebastian Smythe would certainly be an interesting way to go, wouldn't it?

“I’m glad I helped,” he murmurs softly. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Want to tell me what’s right?” Sebastian scoffs. “Everything is wrong, Hunter. I’m wrong.”

“I don't believe that.” Everything about Sebastian just seems so right to him. Perfect in a way that is flawed, beautiful, thrilling. 

“Oh yeah? Just read my file: it’s all there in black and white.  _ Sebastian Smythe is volatile. Sebastian Smythe is selfish. Sebastian Smythe is proud of his promiscuity and his temper and his manipulation abilities. Sebastian Smythe is just so wonderful and charming until he causes you to commit suicide.  _ Don't tell me I’m wrong, Hunter.”

The older boy inhales sharply at the final statement. So that’s what this is about. “You’re upset about that Karofsky bloke?” Of course he is. That must have hit Sebastian pretty hard: he’d been a kid at the end of the day. A rude, cocky, loudmouthed kid, but still a kid nonetheless. That’s the sort of shit that would land a grown man in therapy for years.

Sebastian throws his hands up in the air, cuffing Hunter’s shoulder as he does so. It doesn't hurt, Sebastian could beat him black and blue every day and Hunter would probably still thank him because being touched by Sebastian Smythe is nothing short of an honour. “Of course I’m fucking upset about Karofsky!” he exclaims, bordering on hysterical. “I’m always upset about Karofsky. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about my mother, Hunter: the one who committed suicide because of me!”

Oh. He is so not equipped to deal with this, but it seems that Sebastian has never spoken such words aloud and maybe the fact that he has chosen to trust Hunter with such a revelation is an indication that he is the only person able to tackle such an issue. At least, the first one to find Sebastian in this state. Part of him feels grateful, honoured even, but a larger part of him is sad, angry at whoever takes care of Sebastian because this is a kid and they’ve neglected his emotions about something so incredibly serious. Fucking hell, Sebastian deserves so much bloody better and Hunter isn't as surprised as he’d though he’d be when he comes to the conclusion that he wants to be the one to give Sebastian such things. 

“I didn't know that your mother was dead,” he says quietly, hands finding deceptively broad and toned shoulders once more. “I’m so sorry, Seb-,” he takes one look at his companion’s face and hurries to add, “-astian.” That nickname hadn't gone over too well the last time. He still isn't sure why. He files it under the endless list of things he will probably never know about Sebastian Smythe.

“Both of them,” Sebastian says so quietly that Hunter only just manages to catch it. His heart breaks at the expression on Sebastian’s face in that moment. Lost. Scared. Alone. Fucking hell, nobody deserves this, least of all the boy he has come to equate with happiness, safety, life . 

“Both of them?” he prompts. 

“I’m adopted. My biological mother was murdered when I was eleven and my dad was blamed so I was adopted by my aunt and uncle - the Smythes - but then they got divorced and I went to stay with my adoptive mother because I just liked her better, I guess. We lived in Paris for a few years but then we had a fucking awful row and the next morning I tried to find her, to apologise for what I’d done, you know, but she wouldn't answer when I called her name.”

Hunter feels physically sick as he squeezes Sebastian’s shoulders, pulling the boy flush against his chest despite the fact that they are sitting on the floor in a public bathroom. Sebastian doesn't even seem to register that he is burying his nose into the other boy’s neck, breathing in the comforting scent which is so undeniably Hunter. 

And Hunter just holds him close, loving the feeling and hating himself for deriving any sort of pleasure from Sebastian’s utter misery.

“She’d overdosed on her medication during a manic episode in the night according to the doctors,” Sebastian reveals. “It was my fault for upsetting her. I shouldn't have upset her.”

“Hey.” When Sebastian ignores him, Hunter grips his chin with his thumb and index finger, angling Sebastian’s face so that the two are mere inches apart. Sebastian’s hot breath fans across his cheeks, a phantom against his own lips, and Hunter can smell the saltiness of his tears. “Hey, it isn't your fault. You were just a kid - you still are - and kids do stupid shit, Sebastian. You can’t put that kind of guilt on yourself because you couldn't have known. If you had, you would have stopped it.”

“I didn't just say a couple of mean words or slam a door in her face, Hunter,” he says breathlessly. How is he supposed to focus when Hunter is dizzyingly close to him? It’s impossible to look away from the other’s captivating gaze. “I slept with her boyfriend.”

Ah. 

He shouldn't be feeling jealous.  _ He isn't feeling jealous. _

“Had an affair with him, actually. We’d both been drunk one night and it just sort of happened, I s’pose, not that I remember much that time… it obviously happened again and again and again, for months until she found out and fucking hell, Hunt, I’ve never seen her scream and cry like that.”

Despite himself, Hunter feels a smidgen of happiness when Sebastian gives him a nickname seemingly without even noticing. He’s never been one for such a thing, but it sounds nice in Sebastian’s lilting accent. Everything is nicer when Sebastian is around, his presence a swirling rainbow of vibrancy and colour on a typically rainy day. He’s such a sap now. Ugh. 

“It’s not your fault,” he repeats. 

“I lived under her roof, ate her food, took advantage of her generosity,” Sebastian lists, raking his hands through his previously perfectly coiffed hair. “How is that not my fault?”

“You were a kid,” Hunter states adamantly, ignoring Sebastian’s derisive scoff. “No, listen to me, Sebastian. You were a kid. A kid going through something really traumatic and he took advantage of you whether you want to admit it or not. None of this is your fault.”

Sebastian pulls away then, standing on trembling legs to put distance between the two of them. Hunter might have been offended if not for the fact that Sebastian’s facial features are flitting between uncertainty and defeat - he’d at least gotten through to him on some level. 

“Do you want to perform?”

“Of course I do,” Sebastian answers without missing a beat. “My first foster father is in the crowd with his daughter, my childhood best friend, and I haven't seen them in six years. I can’t let them down too. I won’t.”

With a sigh, Hunter heaves himself to his feet, walking over to the paper towel dispenser and grabbing several before running them under the warm tap water. He steps forward gingerly, hesitating only for a moment before reaching up to begin wiping Sebastian’s cheeks, which he notices flush under his touch, as the other boy distracts himself with fixing his hair. 

In a weird sort of way, this is more intimate than their kiss ever could be: Sebastian is letting Hunter in, allowing him to see his vulnerabilities and help him through them. Sebastian has never looked more beautiful than he does in this moment.

“I’m sorry for putting all of that shit on you.”

“I don't mind.”

“Why?”

Hunter shrugs. “Everybody needs somebody to talk to, even the great Sebastian Smythe.”

“You think I’m great?” There is some of that snark he is familiar with: the snark he craves like the air he needs to survive.

“I think you’re alright,” Hunter corrects teasingly, tossing the paper towels away without even looking. He chuckles when Sebastian makes a comment about him showing off. “Jealous?”

“Not even remotely.” The wording makes them both laugh lightly. Oh how far he’s come.

Sebastian sobers up a second later, biting his bottom lip. Without much thought, Hunter reaches out to swipe his thumb along Sebastian’s lip, effectively causing the boy to release it from the harsh biting. Sebastian already has a black eye protruding from the foundation he had used to cover it (thankfully waterproof, though Hunter doesn't want to know why Sebastian keeps that on his person at all times…) and the idea of him having a split lip isn't one Hunter is fond of. Sebastian shouldn't be hurting himself, nobody should be hurting him.

“What are you doing?” breathes Sebastian uneasily.

Hunter shakes his head, backs away ever so slightly. “Nothing. Are you ready?”

“Honestly? No. I just keep thinking about everything except for the performance and I’m worried I’ll choke mid-song or something.”

“If you do, I’ll be there to make it seem intentional,” Hunter vows seriously. “I’ve got your back, we all have.” Maybe not as much as they should have in the past, but he’ll be damned if he abandons this boy again. Not now, not ever.

“What if I just start bawling like some stupid baby in the middle of the performance?”

“Think about something else.”

“Like what?”

For the second time in the space of fifteen minutes, Hunter Clarington kisses Sebastian Smythe. This time, it isn't quite so one-sided. There is a messy battle for dominance as lips, tongues, teeth clash with one another. It’s nothing elegant nor loving, but Hunter thinks it’s perfect for them. Imperfect yet oddly beautiful. He never wants to break away, would rather suffocate on the intoxicating taste of Sebastian than breathe ever again because air is no longer sweet and refreshing compared to Sebastian’s cherry red lips and raspberry flavoured lip balm.

Their foreheads remain pressed together afterward, breathing as one entity in that unassuming bathroom only minutes before they are due to head onto the stage. 

“Not even remotely bicurious?” He swats Sebastian’s arm, revelling in the boy’s melodic laughter. It is arguably more entrancing than even his singing in Hunter’s opinion. He’d listen to it every day if only Sebastian would let him. It would be more than he, or anybody, deserves, he knows. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I don't think even I’ve ever converted a military brat before.”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I’ve not been converted. You’re just… different, aren't you?”

“So are you,” Sebastian returns. “You look at me weirdly; I've never been looked at like that before.”

“Like what?”

“Like I mean something,” he reveals softly. “Like you actually care or whatever.”

It’s a heartbreaking admission. He’s seeing part of the Smythe boy that nobody has ever seen before, he thinks, and Hunter doesn't know how to feel about it. He settles with adoration as he always does whenever he is in proximity to Sebastian. Fuck steroids: Sebastian Smythe may just be his new drug of choice.

“Of course I care,” reiterates Hunter. “The fact that you could think otherwise is idiotic.”

“Gee, thanks. Does this mean you’re, like, in love with me or something?”

Hunter shakes his head, brows furrowed and lips quirked downward. “I don't think you can tell if you’re in love with someone by a couple of kisses in a bathroom,” he comments as Sebastian laughs. “But I’d be willing to go out for dinner tomorrow, if you want to.”

He’s as blunt as he always is, the way he knows Sebastian usually appreciates. They just understand each other on a level that doesn't require verbal acknowledgement. It’s nice.

“I’m not really a relationship person, Hunter,” Sebastian says awkwardly. 

“And I’m not a one-night-stand person, Sebastian,” he retorts, mirroring the boy’s tone. “I’m not asking you to marry me or something. Let’s just go out as friends and see where it goes.”

He’ll be damned if he lets Sebastian slip through his fingers. For entirely selfish reasons, he doesn't think he could ever let Sebastian go now. Not ever. 

Sebastian hesitates then nods sharply. “Yeah, okay. Not tomorrow, though. I have to catch up with Joe and Iris; I’m sorry, but it’s just been ages and…”

He is cut off by a swift peck to his lips. “Not tomorrow. Got it. Have fun with them, Sebastian, I mean it.” He’s such a bloody sap, isn't he?

“Thanks. Maybe you can meet them sometime.”

“You’re remarkably forward for somebody who doesn't do relationships.” He’s teasing and Sebastian knows it.

“And you’re remarkably into this whole date idea for somebody who isn't even remotely bicurious.” Sebastian grins and it is so painstakingly familiar as it is filled with Sebastian’s typical confident bravado, that it makes Hunter grin right back at him. “Besides, we’ve got to Live While We’re Young, right?”

Hunter laughs. “If that’s your lame attempt at getting me to make a joke about blowjobs, then you’ll be severely disappointed.”

“Ah, well. Worth a shot. I’ll make a confident gay man of you yet, Clarington.”

“We’ll see. Come on, we’ve got some public school kids to wipe the floor with.”

“I love it when you talk dirty,” Sebastian says with an exaggerated moan. 

Hunter isn't sure why he let the team take steroids because with Sebastian’s vocals, Sebastian’s choreography, Sebastian’s natural stage presence, there is no way they could possibly lose. And even if they do, Hunter shares a secret smile with Sebastian on the stage between songs and knows that, as long as he has this boy by his side, he’s the real winner here. 

So, yeah. He really has turned into a teenage girl from one of those cheesy nineties romcoms, but he doesn't mind it so much because Sebastian deserves to have somebody feel that way about him. And Hunter is just glad that he’s the lucky one Sebastian had chosen. 

A sap, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumbr: @bartylus  
> Find me on Wattpad: @detectiveperalta  
> Find me on Instagram: @detectiveperalta.wp

**Author's Note:**

> A four-part series focused on Sebastian Smythe and Hunter Clarington, Barry Allen and the Wests, and the steroids scandal which shook Dalton Academy to its very core. With everything happening around them, romance really is the last thing on their minds. Of course, unexpected love is the best kind.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated! <3


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